


how we got along after the bomb

by Scourge of Nemo (Disguise_of_Carnivorism)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drift Side Effects, Drifting with a Kaiju Brain, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Multi, Post-Drift (Pacific Rim), Post-Kaiju War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 01:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disguise_of_Carnivorism/pseuds/Scourge%20of%20Nemo
Summary: Newton Geiszler was always destined to be a rock star. Admittedly, starting a cult and maybe-or-maybe-not becoming part kaiju wasn't exactly what he had in mind.Or: that one where Newt makes instruments out of kaiju parts, Hermann composes sounds from the drift, and Vanessa accidentally opens the Anteverse, a little.





	how we got along after the bomb

This is what no one ever tells Newton Geiszler about bench research: it’s _awful_.

They tell him after he’s in love with science, “This stuff—it’s ninety-percent failure and repetition. You gotta be patient.” People who get into MIT before they’ve finished puberty don’t do patience, and Newt certainly doesn’t do failure. And maybe if he’d known all this in advance, he would have hauled himself up and gotten his ass to fall in love with something else. (Maybe, but he doesn’t think so).

The first few weeks he’s a wreck in the lab, pacing through the drudgery of waiting for tiny samples to make the right shapes on gels and paper, jiggling his legs and starting odd projects and watching everything he knows fail again and again. “There are just some things you don’t learn in a class,” they tell him, all wagging fingers and starched lab coats and identically-pressed haircuts, and he imagines enzymes shredding their DNA.

He asks the post-docs, every single one of them, _is it always like this?_ (yes) _so why are you still here?_ His favorite answer is from a grad student: I hate helping people. Newt’s not so fond of people, either.

It’s not gut-slinging large-haired manic-grinned high-powered search-and-discovery. It’s just a job: slow, tedious, frustrating, driving him pacing as he waits for the samples to ripen, then wastes three hours purifying a chemical someone left the cap off of. No one stays up until three a.m. high on caffeine, unfed since yesterday, in love with bench science if they can help it. They get out early and they _go the fuck to sleep_.

His students watch him vibrate and pace, but they respond, they listen, they ask and they theorize and they make worlds from biology. They’re the only part of this worth anything. The rest stagnates and he’s furious, trapped, practicing guitar every night until his fingers bleed just because it keeps him from smashing lab equipment.

He throws ideas at them, hand-sketched blueprints for cross-disciplinary technologies that occur to him as he notices that the sun’s coming up and realizes he’s got to get more done before everyone starts coming in to the lab. They’re good ideas, he knows it, they’ll work, but—

“The answer’s no, it’s never gonna change,” they keep telling him, “this isn’t a scifi film,” and he starts to realize that yeah, they’re right. But he’s more right. So he starts a second project in the meantime, and then a third, and soon he’s running more experiments than the entire department put together. He barely sleeps, eats out of a vending machine—just like he always imagined. _Don’t you take meds?_ they remind him, like he’s forgotten, and say, _you can’t do crazy shit like that_ , and if one of them shows up for a lecture mysteriously injured, well, he doesn’t know anything about it, he’s been running experiments since 5 a.m. yesterday. And before he knows it he’s done with undergraduate and half-completed three grad programs, running overlapped experiments at temporally impossible rates because he has so many ideas and they’re volting off of him with nowhere to go.

There are results, of course _he_ has results and not them. Fuck _all_ of them, every single one who told him progress was slow and torturous (it’s their rules and their stifling white-washed gray matter, _it doesn’t have to be that way_ ). They can’t make him slow down. He made himself for this.

—

So this is what happens to Newton Geiszler: he ends up with six doctorates.

Not because he’s smarter than them. That’s the first thing he figured out, after all: everyone here is normal, and mediocre, goggles and a pair of nitrile gloves attached to a brain trained just like all the rest. Newt is not excluded from this. No, not because he’s smarter. Because he’s better. Because way back when, he cut himself to pieces and rebuilt himself from scratch, and he’s a biological weapon calibrated to take the world apart. He’s tasted the stage and he’s seen the innards of the universe and he’s a god damned _scientist_.

(He has this uncle, Uncle Gunter, who composes a little bit of symphonic orchestra here and there. Gunter always asks: _Didn't you always want to be a rock star?_ And, well, yes, maybe he did. Maybe that was the plan. Maybe that's how he ended up drunk out of his mind lead singer-guitarist for a Berlin-based Velvet Underground tribute band three-months straight during a brief sabbatical halfway through one degree. But Newt's always had that self-destructive tendency, and, well—masochism and the music industry tend to make tragic mates. Science is safer, really.)

Anyway, he likes to tell people, when they let him talk a little too long, he ends up with six doctorates because something is killing him.

—

And then: K-Day.

It’s like every monster manga he ever read, all his favorite movies, everything that should have scared him but didn’t. He’s exhilarated; he’s sick to his stomach. He goes into his first manic episode since the first four doctorates. He books a skeezy back-door six-seater flight to San Francisco because the closest a reputable airline will go is Seattle (nuclear fallout, _fuck that_ , he tells the pilot). It lands in a zone that looks like something out of an apocalypse, water thick with oil and the wrong kind of blue, dead fish crowding each other into the seaplane’s floats, eyes bulging and glassy.

At the end of the week, Trespasser’s fresh ink aching on his skin, he may or may not technically break into the scientific headquarters and slam a hundred pages of reviews on the three pages of scientific information released to the public onto the most important-looking desk he could find.

He’s screaming at the PPDC before there’s even a PPDC to join—the analysis is sound, risky but well-reasoned, and just by looking at the biological fallout he’s figured out things that took their teams the whole week and half a dozen advanced chemical techniques. They look him up and down, see the inflammation of his fresh tattoo on his neck, bright red like a danger sign. He sees the _no_ in their eyes before they say it. His skin is the wrong kind of memorial, for them.

But he doesn’t back down, he doesn’t stop, and when the attacks keep coming and the PPDC rises out of the panicked politics of half a dozen nations, they look at his clothes and his tattoo and then finally they look at his work. They’re too desperate and he’s too damned good for them to say no, anymore.

He’s the first biologist on their team.

—

All of that was ten years ago.

The point is: he can’t go back.

—

Newt takes one look at Doctor Hermann Gottlieb and sees every man who told him _no_.

—

“This job is fucking _magical_ ,” he tells Hermann—Hermann _no one gave me enough attention as a child so mein Gott if you leave off the doctorate one more time so help me_ Gottlieb—and Hermann just sneers and implies he's a fetishist. Because of course Hermann doesn’t get it, because Hermann is a mathematician and maths methodology is about theory and rules and patterns and forcing some kind of meaning on a world that shouldn't have any.

Biology works in reverse: explain the meaningless oddities from cell to flesh. Categorize them as you must, but make the rules just so you know better how to break them.

And that's fine, to have order and randomness on the same team, at first.

But then the budget shrinks, and the two hallways between them becomes two rooms, and the two rooms becomes one, and the one room becomes a sad small line that doesn't stand up well against hydrochloric acid so – well, he couldn't see it if it's not there, so how could Hermann expect the guts to stay on the biology side, is all Newt's saying.

Soon there's petri dishes in odd corners, next to piles of chalk. The monsters are getting bigger as the budget's getting smaller, and sure enough it's only them left, no stipend, no funding, just spent equipment and a widening rift in the world.

And, well, when it's starting to look like the lab's shutting down and the world's going to end, like the Jaegers are on their last legs – well. He doesn't like to admit it, but he thinksthat if it hadn't been for the Kaiju, he'd have left science for the stage by now, and that he might be going somewhere, even if the world would probably have found some other way to end.

But Stacker Pentecost doesn't do done, not really, so the job's not over yet. But as he's building a scientific impossibility so he thinks _rock star_ and remembers those days he spent screaming more than singing with the Black Velvet Rabbits on smoke-cloyed Berlin stages. He’s had it in his mind since before Oblivion Bay—getting out there again, tearing a place for himself just like he has in the PPDC.

Then he drifts – oh, he drifts. And he sees everything in new colors, for just a moment.

—

Then it's over, and he’s like a human relic (his work, his skin): extinct.

—

He thought.

But then they start to offer him everything, and he’s not hyperbolic, there, not in the least; they’d probably give him a god damned continent for just a slice of his brain. Lecture circuits, book deals, teaching positions, talk show host positions, spots in labs with disciplines whose methods he’s never fucking _touched_. It’s _Doctor Geiszler Doctor Gottlieb sign on the dotted line, it’s just a contract, sign away your rights your research your minds_. He sees himself on a steel table with a bloody Y incised through his rib cage, heart still beating, doctor asking, “Are you okay? Do you feel that?” as his brain makes broken-glass heartbeats on a screen above.

Hannibal Chau wants to peel off his skin and pickle his thoughts and put them in a neat little row in the basement of some untouched place to gather interest like all those jars of kaiju parts; Hannibal Chau wants to chain him to a wall and make him clone capital like plasmid bacteria (and if that isn’t a horror film Newt doesn’t know what is: something goes wrong and the world’s overrun by man-made Kaiju clones, and Newt wonders if someday he might be the Precursor). So academia wants to put him into a museum; the military, in a mausoleum. Newt isn’t sure what’s worse.

“Don’t be _absurd_ , Newton, these people are the authorities. They exist to prevent your _genre-film nightmares_. Your paranoia really does know no bounds,” Hermann snaps when Newt tries to explain, _no, no, you can’t let these people in your head, you can’t give anyone a word._

Newt knows this looks like what Hermann’s always wanted: respect, funding, stability, miles and miles of chalkboard to stand on, the world not _at_ his feet so much as carefully walking around them. But it’s not respect, it’s commodification, and _god damn it_ if Newton Geiszler is going to let either of them anyone a single skin scraping, a single letter of his notes.

His work isn’t just written in his skin, it’s in his neurology; his brain plasticity has twisted to form muscle memory of how to place the scalpel, just so, how Kaiju skin parts so differently from the frogs and turtles and pigs and cows and human cadavers of his undergrad days. (There's another memory, now, one he doesn't like to talk about: When he slips from conscious to unconscious movement he starts to breathe with lungs in places he’s never had. The kaiju are still alive, now. Just differently.)

Newt’s never really had boundaries (the line was Hermann’s, of course); Newt has always been the one slurping up others’ space until they find themselves in the next room over, missing half a dozen pieces of equipment and covered in slime. But now he’s drawing them everywhere: packing every piece of equipment with his own hands, melting down anything he doesn’t need, only drinking from disposable water bottles, only eating food made by his own hands.

Hermann makes snide comments until he catches one of the lab's hired movers stuffing all his chalk into a ziploc bag.

All Newt knows is: if they get anything from him, it’s going to be a biotoxin. Or a mediocre EP.

His brain makes a noise like a stopped record, and Hermann doesn’t say anything when Newt drops to his knees mid-sentence and starts to draw a bar staff on the floor.

—

He’s still a scientist; he could never stop _being_ a scientist. But he’s also walking human ricin, a moment away from synthesizing DNA or poisoning his handlers, and now he’s a free agent with six doctorates and a civilization crawling through his head. So of course, when he thinks instruments, he doesn’t think _music store_. He thinks, _I can build basic cloning technologies from Ebay shit._

Music is all the same puzzle pieces, just put together a little differently.

He stockpiles equipment, he absconds with samples the PPDC have hopefully forgotten about, he builds a lab. When it’s complete, finally, he turns to look at it and he thinks he can hear its heartbeat. The room is windowless, dim, a liminal space with no orientation; flasks bubble on hotplates covering every surface, huge hulking hand-scrapped machines stand amidst furls of kaiju intestine. The first time UV light strikes pulsing fresh-grown organs and the flesh growing off the walls, he’s reminded, for a moment, of the innards of a Cylon warship. Until he looks up, and it’s the closest thing to the Anteverse Newt has seen in this dimension. He’s not sure if the room’s a dream or a nightmare, but it’s everything he’s ever seen in his sleep.

He strings guitars from the gut fibers; he’s drying a membrane stretched thin between chemical hood doors and a weirdly-angled chair. With the right diameter and texture of claw, he thinks he can make a drum that’ll resonate like nothing on this earth. There are bone flutes strewn over counters, an experimental aborted ocarina, some sort of bleached bone monstrosity he’d hired someone to fashion into an acoustic guitar (he’s going to go electric, find a way to merge the wiring with biological remnants).

He thinks: Uncle Gunter would be so fucking proud.

And then he steps in a self-spawned fledgling lung sac, wonders where it came from, and thinks: it’s not enough.

One day he’s a bit careless, gets a drop of blood somewhere it doesn’t belong, thinks, _hey, what the hell?_ and sequences his own DNA. Looking at combinations and base pairs that don’t even exist in the human genome, he runs it again. And again. His hands shake, and he knows he can mix samples sometimes but he’s not _that_ careless.

It’s not his DNA, anymore.

Within a month, he has an orchestra of once-living instruments, fashioned from the guts of the same creatures whose memories curl inside his own, vibrating their dying cries in alien fragments of his DNA.

The first night he writes, it’s like the lab but it’s nothing like that, it’s him drowning in blue and swimming through an upside-down city, that pulses and shudders with living heartbeat. It’s no sleep for days as he rips out sound boards and rewires them until the room pulses with groans synthesizers weren’t made to make, turns dissonant chords into chthonic echoes of the world he’s never touched.

The music is already there, in his bones and in the momentary paralysis of sleep. At points it’s like he's exorcising their vibrations, unwinding his own DNA to strip out specters of ancient coding. He structures spirals of bone and organ as he draws out the melodies from inside him into flesh.

He doesn't know where the words come from, because they're less words than keens, English and German jumbling together into howls that mean something in a language he doesn't know except at the edges of sleep. Sometimes, when he wakes gasping for air with the impression of his mother’s umbilical cord still tight against his neck, he thinks they might know what they mean.

Sometimes his chords and melodies are otherworldly, scales that hover between microtonal and phrygian but with no lasting allegiance to either—he’s not entirely sure where they come from but they seem to have the same foundational resonances as the architecture of the Breach. It occurs to him finally to wonder if the kaiju have music.

—

He and Hermann don't see each other much, these days—just the obligatory check-in every time (less and less often) someone remembers to invite the scientists along to the post-apocalypse Jaeger pilot press parties.

Really, Newt doesn't see much of anyone, these days, or sleep, or change clothes, sometimes, which is how he ends up having to make sure that gill structures aren’t formed on his ribs after dreams, and also the new bone protrusions on his back are shoulder blades, not vestigial wings. But he can worry about that when the instruments are done.

Then Hermann shows up in his apartment one night, and that's not great. Apparently keeping his spare key in a Knifehead-shaped Chia plant by the towel-cum-welcome-mat is both “insane” and “eminently predictable.”

Well, that, and Hermann sees the instruments. Which he is probably smart enough to figure out aren't _entirely_ legal.

But, y'know, Newt could use a mathematician.

So he says: “You know... I could really use a math guy. I've got this little problem—”

Hermann looks at him, agast. He looks at the kaiju organ structures that spiral from floor to ceiling, pulsing, breathing; he looks at Newt. He looks past Newt into the bathroom, which is mostly test samples, at this point. He squints at the carpet—it's mostly slime.

And he says: “Are you out of your god damn _mind_?”

“Well, you could just say no, dude. I just—I have a little—it's only this pretty simple—”

“No.”

A long pause.

“Um, hey, so, this might sound weird, but have you noticed any—gills?”

“Gills.”

“Yeah, like...on your ribs.”

“Gills. On my ribs.”

“I mean, because sometimes I think I see—”

What proceeds is humiliating, and involves not a small amount of body odor, because phew, it's been a few days (weeks) since Newt thought about changing that shirt.

There’s nothing there. He’s just human, he thinks. He’s just human. Humans dream of flying and swimming and destroying, after all.

“You have to stop this,” says Hermann, gesturing around them at the mucus and flesh that strings from wall to wall.

“But I'm so—”

“No.”

“If you would just—”

"No, no, a thousand times _no._ Do you _see_ how little of you is still human?"

“I thought we just decided I _don’t_ have gills.”

“You’re living in a self-made kaiju belly, Newt. You don’t need _gills_ for that to seem like the obviously bad idea that it is.”

There is a part of Newt that would've been excited about this ten years ago, ecstatic, running tests and writing papers, living life at large as a proud monster freak. A part that would’ve wondered why gills and memories for him, but nothing for Hermann. A part that would’ve asked the scientific question, the smart question. But as soon as his mind turns to tests, to questions, to answers, all he hears are the upside-down chords of kaiju calls in the earth’s crust.

So he cracks a grin. “Posthuman dignity, man,” Newt says. “I got it.”

Somehow, Hermann ends up staying. It takes them eighteen hours to solve the troublesome math equation, and another six to fix up something that’s like a xylophone, except the keys are scales and it snuffles if you play too far outside of the treble clef’s upper reaches.

—

Two days later someone knocks on Newt’s door. Hermann and Newt stagger forward together, half-slept wrecks with hair in the wrong places and clothing out of place.

The first words out of the stranger’s mouth are: “Don’t you think you can fucking leave like that, Hermann,” and in the instant she rushes forward to hug Hermann, she smiles, and Newt has been in love with her for ten years. _Vanessa Gottlieb is nothing like I remembered,_ Newt thinks. He’s never seen her before in his life.

She doesn’t say: it was stillborn.

But Newt remembers, even though it happened after the Drift. He can almost read the pages and pages of DNA sequencing results, perfectly normal at first glance, and then—missense, nonsense, frameshifts, a nonsensical tangle of G A T C, some new nucleotides never seen before K-Day, some bonds between nucleobases and phosphates that should have been right, but weren’t.

She doesn’t say: you saved the world too late.

She does say: “I love you.”

They both say it back.

Then she looks at Newt and says, “Ah, this fucker,” and he falls in love with her all over again.

—

Newt starts solo in the Berlin industrial scene with no label.

The music industry is in shambles, and Newt is pretty sure Hannibal Chau runs most of it these days. They’re like a good old taste of the USA in its true punk days, fury running off of sweat and viscera with nothing to show for it but mass hysteria and adulation. Some concerts are less musical talent and more screaming rage, Newt’s too-high untrained voice grinding around guttural.

The early iterations sound a bit too much like a particular Canadian mathcore band from the 2000s. It’s a problem.

But then Newt hears Vanessa sing.

The first time Newt hears Vanessa sing it’s all, “She’s got to sing for us! It’d be like Nightwish meets Rammstein with some of Oomph!’s _Brennede Liebe_ , man, this is _perfect_ , you have _no idea_.”

Hermann just curls his lip and says, “You _know_ I have no idea what any of that twaddle means. And really, Newton? _Us?_ ”

But the more he’s helped Newt with the kaiju clones, the more Hermann has felt the echoes in his bones. No amount of math will get them out.

So exorcism it is.

—

Newt's music is chaos but when Hermann starts scrawling the notes on their walls it becomes chaos _theory_ , gains impossible boundaries and simple harmonics that Newt just forgot to add in, and the results are a universe of sound. They both know it's not their universe, just as much, monumentally, as it is, these twin monoliths of complete possession and alienation that crawl and squirm in them.

Music is a circle, is fixed intervals, is mathematical patterns and predictable tones and algorithms that Hermann can’t believe no one has written. Fractal tones meet the resonant frequencies of far-distant stars and sometimes it gets just a bit too far—beyond.

Which is where Vanessa reels it back, gives it shape and form and humanity.

—

This is how Doctors Geiszler and Gottlieb have always functioned: they explode off of each other and revolve around a third point like they’re specks of stardust caught in a supernova’s gravity. The third point is crucial, or all they do is flounder, trying to beat the world bloody with the chips on their shoulders.

The apocalypse was their third point. Newt needs a channel for his neural overloads, Hermann needs something to prove to him that his math has written true. They’ve created a new physics between them with how they’ve unpeeled the kaiju DNA,

So yeah, they’re two men who need an apocalypse and the apocalypse is over. Worse, done away with by their own hands.

What are they to do?

Newt looks at Vanessa and he sees a replacement apocalypse.

And the world loves her; of course it loves her. Something happens when you take a gorgeous woman and you give her a battle scar and you put her on a stage: people fall in love. They call her the face of war, the muse of the people.

Newt can feel Hermann’s disgust with the world roiling off the white-knuckled grip on his cane. It’s almost tangible, some days—like Hermann would like to strangle someone with it.

But Hermann, too, has found things that don’t belong in his DNA, and it’s too late for them both. They’re not human anymore, so why not take advantage?

People listen, now. People listen to all of them.

—

They bring their music to the Boneslums. The pyrotechnics light up the ruins of the gods’ carcasses with cheap flashy explosive and stock chemical tricks.

The concerts become half bacchic revelry, half cultish frenzy (so really when you get down to it, all bacchic revelry). Lit candles singing kaiju rib cages, mad convulsing bodies visible in glimpses through the shadows of the beasts' teeth. They dance in its maw like they're waiting for its flesh to crawl back out of the kaiju blue, stitch itself back together bone by bone, rise like the slime of evolution creating itself from nothing, and swallow them whole.

They’re dionysian gods bursting through social standards and raising armies of screaming acolytes who worship at the foot of their stage-altar (high on kaiju-parts, headchangers slashing windows through to the Anteverse). And they don’t know what’s happening, not really; they’re just reveling in the way people howl with their discordant half-tones. The kaiju cults, the gods’ carcasses— _Doktor Rotwang_ becomes a surrogate cathedral to everyone who saw the apocalypse and thought it beautiful.

When he moves his skin turns to living breathing tapestry; sometimes, they say, kaijus twist across his straining throat, storming color where a needle has never touched his skin. And when he bares his teeth to sing, they can hear Yamarashi roar.

It’s not quite what Newt wanted, really.

“This is just… an absurd extension of your inner kaiju groupie. It’s spreading like a _disease_ ,” sneers Hermann.

Vanessa looks between them, then out past the stage, into the night, where thousands of faces revel in the ribs of the giants that mankind felled. “I know you meant that as a joke, love, but there’s something to it. Don’t they look… ecstatic? It’s like those fucking Christian summer camps on bonfire night.”

Newt squeaks and Hermann grabs him by the ears, looks him straight eyes and says, “Newton. _Newton_. Do you understand what you’ve done?”

“Nah, man,” Newt says, and wraps the Gottliebs into him with an exuberant shoulder hug, “it’s what _we’ve_ done.”

Herman blusters: it’s cheesy and shallow and a wholly inadequate response to the fact that they have _started a cult_.

He’s a scientist, through and through, and he would never see himself as a part of a religious cult—but he’s not sure he minds leading one.

In some ways, it’s a bit inevitable. Give a kid a name like Newton and the rest of his life’s either a self-fulfilling prophecy or a knock-knock joke. He’s not sure what this is.

—

They treat Newt’s skin like a religious text, and their stages like churches. Some days he dreams of waking to find he’d been skinned alive, skin preserved to immortality, stood up like an exoskeleton and worshipped in a cathedral made of bone. Other days he dreams of crawling out of his skin, sprouting wings from his back, flying up up _up_ until his mucus sacs freeze, dropping Gipsy Danger from the sky.

Sometimes, when the music’s loud enough, Newton feels himself die.

He has to remind himself: it was just the kaiju.

For awhile, it seems like they’re summoning the ghosts of kaiju, like the Boneslums are growing tendon and muscle and dermis and epidermis, reassembling around the thousands of voices that groan with half-written harmonics and screaming industrial grunge.

The first time a crowd hails them as gods, Newt spends the next three days composing a song in some half-functional messiaen tonal bastardization and debuts it with a disgustingly large grin.

“Yes, Newt, we know you’re clever,” Vanessa says, smiling fondly, as Hermann sneers.

But they play it. And on that day, there really is a kaiju, small, like Otachibi rearing its head from another world, just for a second.

That concert ends early, in the wrong sort of screams.

Later they pass it off as a fluke: too many headbangers with enough strobe lighting and anybody can see anything. Newt doesn’t mention that the claw marks in the center of the Boneslums are fresh, and Hermann doesn’t say anything when Newton sneaks out in the middle of the night carrying a vat of ammonia.

—

He’s not sure which one of them says it, over and over: “It’s not going to open again. It’s _never_ going to come back. It’s not. It’s not.”

But Newton Geiszler knows: If the kaiju do come back, he’ll be the one to bring them. His instruments will call them to him, and the monsters will bring with them the life he’d dreamed.

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in an old doc and decided to wrap it up and publish in honor of Pacific Rim: Uprising.
> 
> I'm neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com


End file.
